Roads Untravelled
by Rugiku
Summary: There are tides to a war. Different paths to alternate endings - a multitude of open possibilities. At least, they all do until they finally meet their fate. FushimixMisaki, AU, sadfic. Inspired by Linkin Park's "Roads Untravelled". [edit]: fiddled with formatting. Still not great.


**Roads Untraveled**

**Inspired by Linkin Park's ****_Roads Untraveled_****.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own, or make profit.**

**Please, read and review.**

* * *

_Weep not for roads untraveled,_

_Weep not for paths left alone,_

_'Cause behind every bend_

_Is a long, blinding end_

_It's the worst kind of pain I've known._

* * *

It was a fine, late-autumn day when the Red Sword of Damocles fell.

The sky was rent open, the seas boiling over the land, and where once stood the top school in Japan – Ashinaka High School – there was smoking rubble sliced through with blue lightning and crimson fire. Hundreds of thousands died, incinerated beyond recognition.

The catalyst?

A culmination of the colours war. Control corrupted the city, breaking it apart with the power of gods. A struggle over control of the city rendered the land uninhabitable for generations and yet, the key fighters of this war of red and blue refused to give ground to the other.

Suoh Mikoto lay dying as the crater made from his Damocles slowly filled with sea water, wondering if the HOMRA bar managed to survive the sword's impact. After all, he was more concerned with his group's future rather than his imminent present. Munakata Reisi, the Blue King, felt the cold liquid lap at his burned flesh as he lay beside his rival and decided that he hated swimming. Especially in autumn.

In the rubble of Ashinaka High School, a long-awaited rematch was spiralling to its climax.

Fire roared in the amphitheatre as the mad cackling of one Saruhiko Fushimi filled the spaces where the flames and heat could not. Yata Misaki shot forward, flames licking at his skateboard and threw a fist at the smirking traitor. The attack was dodged, and Yata skipped over the counter slash at his torso, landing safely back on his board as it skittered out of range.

Silver flashed out of nowhere and the Yatagarasu batted the blade away from his person with a flame-augmented palm again and again as the chased steel reached for his flesh, blue lightning baying for his blood. Seeing an opening, Misaki lunged for the open side with a bone-breaking and flesh-searing punch had he not have to yank his fist from its path and flip over Fushimi in order to keep said limb. Bright red screamed at Yata's face and the vanguard of HOMRA dropped backwards, avoiding the throwing knife aimed at his throat.

"Still flexible like a girl, Misaki." Fushimi sang, barely able to suppress the mad laughter that bubbled up. Yata scowled at the other as he righted himself, powering forward for another clash. Their heated attacks filled the glass amphitheatre with the scent of ozone and ash, the white tiles beneath them cracking from the pure, redirected energy constantly splashing upon their surfaces.

"By now, your King is dead. After all, his Sword of Damocles did fall. I'm surprised that your powers are still going without your King's sanctum." Yata rolled his eyes at the traitor's constant yammering, long since having learned to use the time where Saruhiko spent his energy talking to rest and regather his strength.

_He's right though_, admitted Yata, feeling a light itch on his collarbone. _I'm moving slower than I usually am and it's getting harder to block him too._

"So what, traitor?" Yata snarked, a mocking grin on his face. "You're at half power now, and your King is probably faring no better. I wouldn't be surprised if your powers just short out right now."

Fushimi made no move other than to relax into a different stance – hand on hip, weight listing on one leg, rapier lowered – and tilt his head, allowing a reddish glow across his glasses to obscure his features.

"Good riddance then." He muttered under his breath. _But if not Reisi then Seri-_

_Yeah, she wouldn't hesitate to keep blackmailing me at all._

Yata frowned at the soft comment then leapt back, dodging a swipe at his chest. He countered with a string of punches and kicks, each one blocked by the other's lightning blade. Each traded blow wore down at their auras, whittling the borrowed power down to dissipated, irredeemable sludge.

Saruhiko swung blindly, recovering from a throat-strike that cost him his glasses, his rapier (his throwing knives having been lost to the heat of battle long ago) flashing in the dim light and slamming into a fist. Misaki's fire flickered, even as he gritted his teeth and poured his life energy into the flames of HOMRA when it weakly sputtered into non-existence.

With the close proximity, Fushimi could make out the expression of horror as the blade passed cleanly through the muscle and bone between Misaki's third and fourth fingers, deep into his palm and out with a spray of blood that patterns Yata's dirtied, white shirt with red petals and flecks his own face with the liquid. One last, unthinking thrust (because that's what Munakata the bastard has indoctrinated him into doing over the past year, and fuck, when he gets manic like this, he doesn't think before acting) and Misaki – the boy who he spent his summer afternoons leaning against late into the night in the bar, sharing an ice cream – just stares at him as if he was surprised that Saruhiko has _actually run him through this time_.

Their crystallised moment where Fushimi realises the full extent of what he's done and where Yata tries breathing in through lungs rapidly filling with blood is broken by the hacking cough that unceremoniously sprays dark sanguine onto Saruhiko's face.

Shock forces Yata Misaki's knees to the ground and all he can think is _why can't I breathe_ and _where is that damn monkey going at a time like this? _

* * *

_Give up your heart left broken,_

_And let that mistake pass on,_

_'Cause the love that you lost,_

_Wasn't worth what it cost,_

_And in time you'll be glad that it's gone._

* * *

Fushimi is panicking.

The madness bubbles up from within his constricted chest and he laughs as his feet automatically carry him away from his own crime. _There must be some terrible punishment for killing your… what: your friend? Your brother? Your soul mate?_

It is this thought that stills his movement, and Fushimi turns back to see the slightly blurry figure of Misaki slumped on the ground, shirt more red than white now. How small he seemed now, dwarfed by the huge glass panels – warped with the heat of their fight – when ever since he met Misaki he had always lived larger than life (perhaps to make up for his lack of stature, Saruhiko figured).

_Death,_ he thought, _is a much larger entity than mere architecture._

_You had better not let him enter that uncharted country from which no traveller has returned alone._

A crazy bark of laughter broke out from his chest again. He was quoting _Hamlet_ of all things. How morbid.

He was chuckling even as he gently tugged on Misaki's limp body, settling it comfortably in his lap, just as they had done long ago under blankets and cans of sweet coffee as snow fell around the outside of the HOMRA bar.

He didn't even realise he was crying until Misaki mentioned it with his dying gasps.

"You still sob like a cry-baby, you traitor."

Fushimi hiccupped, wiped his tears on Misaki's shirt, and took his ruined hand in his own and placed it upon the handle of the sword that still protruded grotesquely from his chest.

"Saru- what are you doing?" Misaki tried to focus better on the sensations around him rather than the numbing cold that had overtaken his limbs and mind.

Pain blossomed deeper into his chest and he felt the warm rush of blood on his back as Fushimi pushed his own blade into his chest with nothing more than a whimper.

"T-there's nowhere I can go now," Saruhiko hiccupped again and buried his face into the crook of Misaki's neck, the other happy to let him. Deep down, he always knew there must have been a reason that Fushimi left HOMRA. Left him.

"My mistakes… my weaknesses… they just follow."

Misaki drew in a rattling breath.

"Blackmail?"

Fushimi nodded weakly into his old friend's shoulder.

"You're an idiot, but okay… I forgive you."

Dimly, Misaki felt his right hand drop from the sword and his other intertwine with Fushimi's left.

"I just… maybe if I hadn't given in…"

Hot tears soaked through Misaki's shirt and the water ran over his Red Crest – useless and spent.

"Yata, I wish… we could go back to the beginning…"

"Ya… Yata… Do you hear me?"

* * *

_Weep not for roads untraveled,_

_Weep not for sights unseen._

_May your love never end,_

_And if you need a friend,_

_There's a seat here alongside me._


End file.
